Scrapbook of Secrets by Mollie Cox Bryan Read Free Book Online Page A

7
    Beatrice’s head ached more than it ever had in her whole life. She struggled to open her eyes. When she did, she just shut them again. The bright light sent jabs of pain through her skull.
    She sank into a pleasant dream about making love with her husband. They were in their bedroom, on their own chenille bedspread. As he took her, she saw the sheer curtains blowing in the breeze just over his bare shoulder, and she smelled the lilacs just outside the window. She cherished that moment with him. It felt the same every time; yet, it thrilled her: the thought of the man she loved inside of her like this, being a part of her—that he would want this as much as she. He had desired the same woman, the same love, for all of these years. It was such a comfort to have love like this in one’s life—even if it felt so brief. Once a woman had it, it was always hers. His love had comforted Beatrice for most of her life. It was a thing her science could not explain.
    She felt his hands on her face, cradling her head. Her pain now was lifting through her dream—as if his hand was healing her. She smiled as she woke up to see her daughter looking out the window. She loved looking at Vera’s face as the sun streamed in on it. She looked so much like her father, with that strong, almost square jawline and her heavy-lidded blue eyes.
    Beatrice cleared her throat. Her tongue still felt heavy.
    “Mama?” Vera turned around, came to the bed, and reached for her mom’s hand. “How are you feeling?”
    “Fine,” Beatrice answered, with a little trouble. “I had a headache, but it’s gone. My neck is a little sore.”
    “You did have a knife lodged in it.” Vera smiled at her.
    “Well, I know that,” Beatrice said, finding her tongue, looking around the room. “Look at all the flowers.”
    “Oh, yes, Mama, almost everybody in town sent you flowers. Isn’t that something? Even the new family—the Chamovitzes. By the way, Annie Chamovitz was here last night and gave Sheila and me a ride home,” Vera told her.
    Bea thought a moment. “Too drunk to drive?” “That’s what the doctor thought, but we were both fine,” she said, and smiled. Then she changed the subject. “Bill will be home today.”
    “Bully for him,” Beatrice said, grimacing. Her son-in-law was okay. Vera could have done worse. But damn, he was boring. What on earth did her daughter see in him?
    “You know the oddest thing happened last night,” Vera said, changing the subject again. She then told her mother the story of the boxes of scrapbooks.
    “What was in them?” Beatrice wanted to know.
    “We didn’t have a chance to look through them. It was late and we just left them in Annie’s van. We’re going to get together Saturday night and look through them. Isn’t that awful? I mean, dead less than twenty-four hours. ”
    “It does seem odd, like someone couldn’t wait to get rid of her—and her memories.”
    “Those poor children,” Vera said after a silence.
    A nurse came into the room.
    “How are you feeling?” she asked, while checking Bea’s IV.
    “I’ve been better, ” Beatrice said, felling a sudden wave of weariness. “I think I need another nap.”
     
     
    What is wrong with people? Is there any love left in the world? How could her husband pile up her scrapbooks on the pavement the day after she died? It took Beatrice months to even think about going through her husband’s things when he passed away—and, in truth, she still kept a few things. His pipe still sat on the dresser with a chunk of that tobacco that she loved to smell. His camel hair scarf and three silk ties hung on the back of her closet door. Then there were the books, which she would never get rid of—they would have to pull Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass from her cold dead hands—if she was lucky enough to die with the book in her hands, remembering the sound of Ed’s voice reading Whitman’s words to her:
    “‘A woman waits for me—she contains